


Where Once Was Love

by Illegible_Scribble



Series: 31 Days of Frodo/Sam, 2018 [5]
Category: The Lord of the Rings (Movies), The Lord of the Rings - All Media Types, The Lord of the Rings - J. R. R. Tolkien
Genre: Bilbo's Birthday Party, Bonding Over Similar Losses, Grief, Hurt, Loss, M/M, Pre-Quest, Smoochtober 2018, Sympathy & Understanding, supportive friends, talking about feelings
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-10-06
Updated: 2018-10-06
Packaged: 2019-07-25 19:34:50
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,075
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/16204244
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Illegible_Scribble/pseuds/Illegible_Scribble
Summary: Following Bilbo's departure from their shared 111th and 33rd birthday party, Frodo finds himself overcome with grief on the road back to Bag End. There, Sam finds him, and the two bring one another a measure of consolation.





	Where Once Was Love

**Author's Note:**

> Based on [this prompt](https://www.pillowfort.io/posts/132744) for Smoochtober 2018, #5: Surprise Kiss (though it nearly worked itself out of the story by the end).

The music, laughter and gaiety that resounded from the Party Field on the night of September 22nd rolled over the hills of the Shire long into the dark, carrying across the water as far as even Frogmorton. Frogmorton was rather devoid of persons to envy or grow upset at the noise, however, as most of its residents were in fact amid the merrymaking.

Though Frodo knew it was plainly true most of the Shire wasn't attending the party, at some points it certainly did feel like it, with nearly everyone from Hobbiton, Bywater and Frogmorton there, and distant relatives from all Four Farthings.

Paper lanterns were strung from tents and the tree like suspended stars, streamers fluttered still in the wind, and the light of Gandalf's fireworks was fresh in everyone's minds. Frodo, now what hobbits considered 'of age', and fresh out of his tweens, had found this very special birthday to have been wonderful indeed. There was virtually no end of delights, from the food to the drink and the fireworks – not to mention the music (even when Pippin had been trying his hand at it), which was splendid. The company and dancing had all been great fun, too, and many times tonight Frodo had found himself breathless with joy after having just capered across the field with his fellows. To his surprise, Sam was quite good at the springle-ring.

It was now properly dinner, after Gandalf's most fantastic dragon firework signaled its start. However, by this time, Frodo's enthusiasm began to wind down in earnest. The day already had been long and full of great fun, but he knew in his head and even more truly in his heart what was soon to come.

Though he sat at Bilbo's side and was often the subject of attention and endeared remarks from his uncle – which he held to dearly – Frodo could not accept them in delighted gratitude unmarred by an impending sense of loss. As best he could, in turn he sang his uncle's praises; of his generosity, patience, care and wisdom, and how grateful he was Bilbo had adopted him so many years ago. Frodo knew they were not to have a proper goodbye, and it was all he could do to express his love a final time.

The shift in the mood of the guests was slow but present, and after a time Frodo could tell clearly they were at last full and content, now just 'filling in the corners', as hobbits like to say. If they were ever going to be amiable to one of Bilbo's speeches, it would be now.

Bilbo seemed still as full of smiles and witty remarks as ever – perhaps even more now, as a smug gleam had entered his eye. Frodo saw his uncle begin to rise in his seat, and for just a moment, he placed his hand over Bilbo's. Bilbo stopped, looking at him, and Frodo could not return his gaze. “Goodbye, Uncle.” he said, only loud enough for Bilbo, with all the courage he could seize. “I love you very much.”

Frodo could feel more than see, the gentle, and almost paternal smile Bilbo had had for him – ever since he was small – on Bilbo's face, now. “Dear boy,” said Bilbo, “my dearest Frodo. This isn't goodbye.” He turned his hand beneath Frodo's and squeezed it, and Frodo managed to look at the final smile Bilbo had – just for him – before the Master of the Hill rose for his final address to the Shire.

 

–

 

Frodo found he had enjoyed the joke, though he'd known of it long before and even still it rent his heart. Even if he couldn't take complete amusement in it, it was a very typical act of Bilbo to leave nearly all of his friends and relatives in such an uproar. Frodo even managed a smile at the outrage of the Sackville-Bagginses, but he rued what explanations he'd need to offer them on the morrow.

As it was, for the night he answered no questions and sat for a long while beside Bilbo's empty seat, noting even Gandalf had left. He discreetly directed more wine to be served, before he drained his own glass to Bilbo's health, and slipped away from the the family dinner with less flair than his uncle.

Making his way to the exit of the Party, he braced himself to withstand the long, painful procession of formal goodbyes he – as the sole host remaining of the event – had to extend to each guest. They were more docile for the last round of wine, but still irate and in demand of answers. “No doubt everything will be cleared up in the morning.” was all Frodo would say. _For you all, perhaps._ he thought, feeling a degree of envy as he watched numerous families departing, together and complete. _I will have much more yet to do._

As the last of the guests were removed by their carriages – or in wheelbarrows, for those unable to move themselves – gardeners, by prior arrangement, descended on the Field to dismantle what remained of the party. Frodo stayed for a few moments to survey it: the last mark on the Shire Bilbo would ever leave, being taken apart.

Among the gardeners was Sam, and briefly he caught Frodo's eye, before Frodo could bear the blasted night no longer and turned to the road that led up the Hill. His pace was first quick and mad, tears he wanted no one else to see beginning to sting his eyes. He'd sworn to himself he'd already wept enough, and Bilbo even said it ought not to be an event worthy of tears, when he'd first told Frodo his plan.

To break his promise by shedding more tears for something he could not change and people he had lost made him furious with himself, but by the time he had reached Bagshot Row, he came to a dead halt. In spite of himself, there were wet tracks down his cheeks that glittered in the moonlight, and he looked up to what had been the home he shared with Bilbo for more than a decade.

Bag End's windows were dark and empty, showing no sign of life nor love within.

For the first time in his life, Bag End scared him.

Because, Frodo realized, _he_ was its Master, and he had come to it by wake upon wake of loss. It was empty because he was grown, and all those that had loved and led him in life were now gone, and no one was left. Not even ghosts, in Bag End – Bilbo wasn't dead, but gone on a road Frodo could not follow, and his parents lost in the rushing water of the Brandywine.

Frodo, overcome with grief, sat down in the middle of the lane and cried.

The parts of him not drowning in loss and mourning chastised him for acting such a child, but they were soon lost in a rushing vortex that crashed over him like a wave. All at once he _wanted_ to be a child again, in his father's lap with his mother combing his hair and cooing to him, with Bilbo sitting near and telling him once more about Beorn's house and all the animals that were his friends.

Then he thought of Bilbo telling him about Thorin Oakenshield, once King Under the Mountain, and the departed princes that were his nephews, Fíli and Kíli, and how Bilbo had wept for them until his head and heart ached in near equal measure.

Once, Frodo remembered, Bilbo said in his heart he had never stopped weeping for them. He said also it was not the same as losing your parents both at once, he understood, but he confided that crying even still for his friends, eased the burden on his heart, even though it never washed it completely away. Crying was the heart's way of trying to heal – trying to get out all the hurt it couldn't contain on its own – he had said, and its pain should not be ignored in the name of pride.

So, Frodo cried there on the lane, alone into the night, Bilbo's words echoing in his ears, along with the nursery rhymes his mother used to tell him, and the recipes his father had tried to teach him. Though he cried not with a thought of healing, but only because it hurt so _much_ , and there was no chance his small heart could hold it all alone.

By the time his head began to ache, his tears had slowed, and he'd made a mess of his jacket sleeves. His legs were leaden, and he had no desire to rise to even cast himself on the roadside for the night. There was not a chance he could manage the last of the road to Bag End.

He'd buried his face in a handkerchief and prepared to just fall over, until the soft but distinct sound of hobbit feet on the path behind him caused him to start. Scrubbing his face frantically, he tried to get on his knees, only finding half or less of his will actually cared enough if anyone found him like this.

To his fortune – though at the time he didn't think much of it – the approaching person cared only for his safety, and nothing for gossip. “Mister Frodo?” said Sam. “Frodo!” and with a pace quick but cautious, Sam was soon kneeling at Frodo's side and trying to assess his condition. “Frodo? Did you fall? Are you hurt? Should I get help?”

Frodo was still wiping his cheeks with his kerchief, and managed to shake his head. “No, sort of and no.” he managed, his voice so raspy it sounded as though he'd had a chest cold for a week. “I'm-” he certainly wasn't fine, and even with only moonlight to see by he knew Sam could see it plainly enough. “Not hurt, but not well.”

Sam's eyes flickered up and down Frodo's rather disheveled person, and with a look of sympathy, seemed to understand. He pulled out his own kerchief and offered it to Frodo, as his was now too damp to be of further use. “Did you know he was leaving?” Sam asked, as Frodo tentatively accepted Sam's kerchief, and nodded.

“For quite a while, in fact,” said Frodo, “but somehow that didn't make it any easier.” his brow furrowed as a wave of anger surged up inside him. “You know, I thought- I had thought, somehow, it would be!” he sounded as indignant and short-changed as he felt. “Knowing- knowing even, exactly to the day and time, and how- would- it... I... I would get to say goodbye, and... It...”

Sam placed a gentle hand on Frodo's forearm. “I don't think knowing it's coming is a help.” Frodo rose suddenly from the murk of his own pain and looked with pained clarity at Sam. It had been only a few years since his mother had died, from an illness that made it long, slow and painful. “And goodbyes aren't 'good' in the least. They still hurt sommat awful.”

Frodo, tentative, placed his hand over Sam's. “He didn't even say goodbye; not really. He said this 'wasn't goodbye'. As if it wasn't! I don't know where he's gone or if I shall ever see him again! And- and one still bids farewell to a guest after dinner, even if you should still see them on the morrow!” With his other hand, Frodo fervently scrubbed at the new tears falling from his cheeks. “He could've at least given me a proper goodbye!

“My-” Frodo stopped short. “Even my parents did, before they went out for the night. I... I ignored it, really... It was sweet, what they said. And I... said something to get them out the door; that they were embarrassing me in front of my cousins...” Frodo fell quiet, squeezing Sam's hand tightly. “We didn't- no one... knew, but... but they still said goodbye, and... I didn't.” 

Sam bowed his head, looking pained. “Didn't properly say goodbye to Mam, neither. I were away in Tighfield when she went, and... last she said was she was looking forward to seeing me when I got back.” he looked at Frodo's hand over his, squeezing it as best he could in turn. “It hurt.”

“Yes,” said Frodo. “It did. It does. Horribly.”

“Does it ever stop?”

“Sometimes. Until it comes back again. It... never goes away forever.” He had always known Bilbo would never stay with him forever. That wasn't how the world worked. But in his heart of hearts Frodo had hoped nevertheless Bilbo would stay on, at least until the birthday when he would surpass the Old Took.

Not so long ago, Frodo had been so convinced they still had _time_. But without even thinking it, really, he'd thought the same of his parents. That they'd be there forever – and then, in a flash even faster than Bilbo's disappearance, they were gone; and he could not bring them back.

Sam had begun to chafe his own and Frodo's hand as the night began to take on a chill. “I'm thinking I'm rather done with these 'good'byes.”

“Yes,” Frodo's voice was faint, “I am, as well.” He was also very tired, and felt nothing but dread to look back up to Bag End.

Sam saw this. “If you want to spare one for the night, um- Sir, and not go all the way up the Hill, we could put you up. Number 3's just a little ways on.”

Frodo began to slowly piece himself back together, looking at Sam with relative clearness of mind, now. “I wouldn't want to impose...”

“Wouldn't be imposing. I'm thinking the Gaffer won't take a minute to understand, and you just watch the girls if you let them fuss over you. Mister Bilbo was right dear to us all, and we're sorry to see him gone.”

Frodo couldn't deny that spending the night at the Gamgees' sounded far more pleasant than sleeping in Bag End's cavernous rooms alone. “Thank you.”

The two dried the last of that night's tears and struggled to their feet, before dusting one another off and exchanging kerchiefs appropriately. The road up the Hill seemed much shorter for the company, and Frodo was ultimately relieved Sam had found him. He hardly noticed that they were still hand-in-hand to the door of Number 3, and they slipped inside to find the Gaffer dozing near the fire and Daisy doing the last of the night's tidying up. When she heard the door open, she made to reprimand Sam for being so tardy, but stopped cold when she saw Frodo come in behind him. “The Sackville-Bagginses gave him an awful tiring night,” said Sam, “and right enough the lane looks more appealing than Bag End at the moment.”

Frodo sheepishly rubbed the back of his neck. “The S.-B.s and an abundance of alcohol are a fine remedy for a head without an ache. Sam's taken pity on me, but I don't want to impose on you all.”

“Nay, not imposing in the least.” said Daisy, understanding the moment the Sackville-Bagginses were brought up. “As a fact Sam's gone and shown some sense. We're happy to put you up, Mister Frodo – you can sleep in the boys' old room, if you like.”

Frodo bowed graciously. “Thank you very much.”

Daisy gently woke her father and explained what was happening, and nearly to the word he said as she had, that Frodo was more than welcome.

As Daisy led Frodo to the room Sam used to share with his brother Halfred, she instructed the Gaffer to get on to bed and Sam fetch some hot water for Frodo to wash up with. “Awful sorry about Mister Bilbo,” she said as she laid out one of her brother's old nighshirts on the bed for Frodo to use, “having him gone is like to someone taking the top of the Hill off.”

“I know well the feeling.” said Frodo, thanking Daisy graciously for her help and bidding her goodnight.

Sam came back a few moments later to fill the bedroom's basin with steaming water, accompanied by a set of towels. “Will you be needing anything else, Sir?” asked Sam.

Frodo was feeling tired to his bones and his head still ached, but he managed Sam a sweet – if sleepy – smile. “Only that you needn't call me 'Sir' all the time, Sam.” Frodo crossed the floor from the bedside and took one of Sam's hands between his. “I'm afraid you've seen me near to my worst and didn't think less of me for it, for which I'm very grateful.”

Sam ducked his head. “I been like to there too, so it weren't nothing so grand, I'm sure.”

“I think Lotho would have thrown dirt in my face. I'm sure he dearly wanted to at the party, anyway.”

Sam looked indignant. “And he's a blighted ninnyhammer without a bone of sympathy in that creaky body of his.”

For the first time that late in the night, Frodo laughed. “And I'm pleased to say you're so very unlike him.” Frodo was exhausted and feeling so delirious, he was, in fact, feeling almost happy, in a tired and sober sort of way. “Truly, thank you for... everything: listening, talking and understanding.”

Before Sam could offer an abashed dismissal of his actions, Frodo swept him into a tight hug, before leaning back and planting a kiss on his forehead. Sam went rigid with surprise and Frodo stepped back, bowing before discomfort could ensue. “In as many ways as I can think of, you're truly wonderful, Samwise. Thank you.”

Sam, blushing, and struggling not to touch his forehead in wonder, managed, “And I think the same of you, S-- Frodo.”

They bid a weary but pleasant goodnight, and only with great effort could Frodo push himself to tidy up and change. Once in bed, he hugged a pillow tight to him, finding more tears leaving his eyes as a longing for one of his parents' or Bilbo's bedtime stories welled up inside him.

When he finally fell into an uneasy sleep, he found himself wandering a forest he imagined Mirkwood would look like. He knew he was desperately searching for something, as he wandered amid the imposing trunks of the lightless forest, but try as he might he could not find it.


End file.
